His Tin Heart and Her Porcelain Beauty
by summersaults16
Summary: Once there was a steadfast tin soldier who fell in love with a beautiful ballerina. And he loved her like a torrential downpour of all his forbidden longings. Non-Magical Darkish Toy Fairytale AU. Based on Hans Christian Andersen's The Steadfast Tin Soldier (Dramione/Tomione) Not a triad. Love Triangle/ Slight OOC
1. One

**WARNING: This is a non-magical Darkish Toy Fairytale AU and is based on Hans Christian Andersen's The Steadfast Tin Soldier. (Dramione/Tomione) Not a triad. Love triangle**

 **IMPORTANT: To stay true to the original version of the classic tale, Draco's personality will be similar to the actual Tin Soldier of the same story. A broken Draco after the war is what I imagine when writing him here. I will insert his canon traits _mildly_ in the story but not fully utilize it. Because for a person who is different from the rest, and suffers from a disability... I don't think using Draco's haughty, arrogant demeanor will be fair to them.**

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 **This was supposed to be my Champagne and Countdown entry for the New Year's fest over at Beyond the Nook but I just couldn't finish it in time of the deadline. I really tried to get it done however real life got in the way, aside from my godson being in the pedriatic icu. I did manage to write half of the story so this will be a WIP and a yuletide gift for all my readers. Happy Holidays, everyone. Please leave a review if you enjoy this.**

 **P.S. Some of the HP cast will be toys! Plus I manipulated the timeline of the characters in canon again! And my Tom always had grey eyes but since Draco has them, Tom's irises will be red throughout the entire fic. This is important well… because I like describing different colored eyeballs xD**

 **** I'd like to thank IvyCresent and NinjaFairy86 for looking over this fic! You ladies are awesome!**

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In a time of war and famine, a soldier's march would bleed and rumble into a person's very bones. Each step could drown each and every wandering thought with an insistent beating akin to one's own heart. A steady, heavy-spirited drumroll of brave men whose bootheels crushed the gravel underneath their feet – unflinching, unwavering, and unfaltering until the last moments of their lives. Those who possessed a persistent single-mindedness of iron will and steadfast determination.

And as time had begun to dissolve itself as shapeless as the rain, there came twenty-five toy soldiers – brothers born of the same old tin spoon. Their shoulders were squared firmly and their muskets in place. Their eyes heavily focused on the stretched distance in front them with their splendid uniforms in shades of green and silver. Perched on top of their heads were tall military caps crafted with visors and adorned with polished ornamental plates.

The little tin soldiers were fashioned to look exactly the same, all except for their youngest brother. Unlike the rest of them, he had been cast the last and his tin was so short that merely one leg was created for him. Although, there he stood tall, proud and commanding despite his sole leg. Better than any of his brethren on their two.

Out of the twenty-five miniature platoon, just the single-legged brother was a given a name. It was from a little boy called Regulus, whose affluent parents had bought the tiny men in their uniforms from an old, famous toymaker who lived down the street. The unique tin man was named Draco, who wore a serious expression on his face as though he was always preparing for a battle to take place. He was a perfect carbon copy of stoicism and gallantry.

What he lacked in his body had been compensated in his features. For even if he was created from a worn tin spoon, his face had been the only one shaped into a handsome piece of work. The toymaker had painted his skin into a brilliant alabaster and his hair was in the color of a vibrant pale blond. He was given piercing grey eyes which revealed a deep intensity, a bold honesty, and a fierce determination in their depths. Perhaps, this was the mark of being a true gentleman. It was the absence of weakness or trite politeness, one made of great spirit and noble ways.

When the night sky stood with an inky canopy of darkness freckled by thousands of stars, the little boy was found inside his large playroom with Draco in his hands. This particular serviceman had become the child's favorite among the many toys he received from his father and his mother on Christmas day. He was twisting and turning the tin soldier's limbs, admiring the detailed handiwork it took the toymaker to create him.

"Young Master Regulus..." an older woman's voice spoke from outside the room followed by a knock on the door. She turned the knob and entered, holding the child's sleep pyjamas in her arms. "It's time for bed."

Regulus sighed and slumped his tiny shoulders. "Yes, Madam Pomfrey." Even at his young age, he was already aware of this monotonous way of living in an environment filled with strict discipline and formality; he felt absolutely lonesome. "Are Father and Mother home?"

"I'm afraid they still have urgent matters to attend to," the aged lady told him with a gentle and apologetic expression. In this era, most wealthy children had been raised by a nanny or a nurse, hired to carry the burden that was child-rearing. Thus, the majority of parent-child interactions were done on rare occasions and only for a specified time each day.

"Come, so I can read you a bedtime story," Madam Pomfrey added softly when she saw how crestfallen his features had become.

"Alright." Regulus smiled at her and turned to the toy that was grasped in his small fingers. "See you tomorrow, Draco." Then, the little boy placed him inside the metal box where his other tin brothers were laid. He walked over to his nanny standing in the doorway and reached for her hand as she guided him outside.

With the night growing silent and the shadows were being consumed by the encroaching blackness, the stars and the moon shone brighter on the horizon. It was as though their presence served as a reminder that even in the darkness there would always be light.

The moon was a white-grey disc sailing in the cloudless sea; streams of moonbeams sank into the earth, bleeding silver on its path. A soft glow illuminated into the direction of Regulus' playroom. The toys inside had slowly began to stir – awakened from their slumber and coaxed to life by the magic of the moonlight.

A crimson clockwork train roared heartily toward its given course as the springs and gears started to move in action on the tracks. Rich-colored paper dolls fluttered the sleepiness from their lashes and stood on their toes to gingerly stretch their arms. Stuffed animals shook the dust that gathered on their faux fur coats. On the far corner of the room, a beautifully carved wooden rocking horse began galloping back and forth in its place; just as a silver music box encrusted with precious stones started to play a soft melody.

Meanwhile, one by one, the tiny soldiers were making their way out of their metal confinement, for most of them had been kept in the box. Draco shifted cumbersomely on his one leg as he felt the power of the moon surge freely inside him. He helped his last brother up on his feet and balanced himself on the table. Then, he positioned the musket at his side while his grey eyes surveyed his surroundings. He was standing perfectly still, preparing himself for another night of patrolling.

"Oh, dear brother. Don't you ever get tired?" A tin man asked Draco wearily. He was called Brother Sixteen, as he was birthed from the toymaker's tin spoon on the sixteenth time.

"Tired of what, you mean?" Draco furrowed his brows but maintained his composed gait, while his steady gaze continued to sweep over the large playroom.

"Standing steadfast all day," Brother Sixteen answered with a sigh and a shake of his head.

The blond serviceman hopped and hobbled, turning to face his prodding brother. A questioning glare was etched on his handsome face – this was not the first time they had this conversation. "Why should I, when it's something I must do?" In truth, he was pleased that in spite of his condition, Regulus favored him among his many brothers.

Although before the sixteenth sibling could respond, Brother One, the eldest, had interjected. He placed his arm around Draco's shoulder in an attempt to make him realize what he was missing. "You rarely mingle with all the other toys. Let loose, have fun, whilst our owner has gone to sleep. There are lovely paper maidens who would be happy to meet with you." He gestured to the alluring female group in their pretty dresses, who were giving the blond tin soldier hopeful glances and playful giggles.

Draco's face flushed scarlet and shyly tipped his cap toward the young women before replying to Brother One, "No, it's alright. I can't even ask the ladies to a dance while having just one leg."

Then, his grey irises travelled to the rest of his older siblings. After some of them had chosen to remain by his side, instead of walking over to the charming paper dolls. "Enjoy yourselves, brothers, and worry not. I shall happily carry on with my duties," he finished speaking and straightened his posture once more, hoping that they would not pester him about this subject anymore.

"If you say so, Draco," Brother One said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. On his two legs, he ambled toward the other tin soldiers who were already chatting and dancing the night in bliss with the comely feminine toys.

He watched from afar as his eldest brother bowed in a gentlemanly manner and extended his hand to a raven-haired doll in a bright blue gown. The little lady curtsied mirthfully and placed her delicate fingers in his. With a smile on his face, Brother One spread his palm on her waist and whisked her away to dance along with the rest of the miniature couples.

For a special plaything with a disability, the gift of sight was lucid evidence that Draco was not alone in this wide universe. He was just like one of many in a world that was filled with countless interesting things to see, to touch, to taste, to hear, and to feel.

It kept his mind anchored that his condition should not be viewed as a weakness or a fault. He did not permit it to hinder him from performing tasks his brothers could freely do on their own two legs. But as the milky white light spilled from the night sky and seeped into every crevice of his hollow shell, he knew he was all by himself in the bleakness of the shadows – as no one in this vast planet had shared the same fate as he.

He was the lone-legged tin soldier. A visual anomaly dictated by a faithless society where the physical attributes of beauty and aesthetics could only be found in symmetry. A balanced proportion or the quality of something that had two sides or halves that were alike in size, shape, and position – and, his dysmorphic limb deemed him anything but symmetrical.

Draco was in deep contemplation over his predicament when he noticed a marvelous palace set high upon a marble table. The grand house sat by its lonesome as though it was solely meant to be admired from a distance and it overlooked the rest of Regulus' playthings. Its many pointed crystal towers resembled a crown of ice, reflecting the night light like many shards of glass. The walls were created from the most magnificent white stone that glistened gloriously under the stars and the moon.

There was a lake as flat as a luminous mirror. It lay without a ripple in its silver-blue water as if time itself had been frozen. There were also swans made of wax dusted with glitter. The whole scenery was adorned with green trees that surrounded the palace like great armies defending their citadel, and fancy gems scattered around it.

However, none of these could compare to what lay at the center of the splendid table. At the grand hall of the frosted palace stood the most beautiful porcelain ballerina. She had the loveliest face, the kind one would remember for days. She had blood-stained full lips and a perfect brow.

She wore a form-fitting bodice with a periwinkle tutu, and pink laced up pointe shoes. Her soft, honey-toned skin was bare and her chestnut brown hair was tied into a bun. Her arms were gracefully raised above her head and one of her legs was beautifully elevated high behind her back. It made it seem to the tin soldier as if she was standing on the toes of her one leg.

And it was at this moment, Draco felt he was no longer alone anymore. He thought he had found someone who shared the same fortune as himself. He watched her maintain an elegant pose even when she had come to life. How could someone who possessed just a single limb, be as breathtaking as she was to him?

"Beautiful," he murmured, for no words could describe how enraptured was he.

She was a masterpiece. A sculptor's most exquisite work of art. When the moonbeams caressed her translucent skin, rays of colors from every end of the spectrum bounced in each direction. It poured effortlessly onto her hair and made each curl seem as if it was alight by passion, looking for an untouched canvas on which to leave a mark. Instead of being the subject of a creation, she was the true embodiment.

"If only I could just..." Draco said to himself in great yearning, devouring her beauty with his striking storm-colored eyes. He wished with every fiber of his being, to reach out and stroke her impeccably shaped cheekbones… for his pale fingers to softly trace her luscious, plump lips... or for his knuckles to tenderly brush under the feathers of her thick, dark lashes.

Suddenly, the blond serviceman trampled the unexplainable desire he felt for the ballerina and quickly scolded himself for his inappropriate thoughts. "What was I thinking?" He knew he did not deserve her. She was too good for a flawed tin man like him. So, he continued to subject himself to the endless torture of gazing at her from afar, without being able to touch.

As though sensing someone's gaze on her, the porcelain beauty glanced in his direction from a few tables away. He froze in shock, clueless on what to do as he had been caught looking intently at her. He did not dare move… did not dare breathe, even if he was not a living thing. For some unknown reason, he felt his tin heart began pounding inside his chest. The beats grew louder and louder, ringing in his ears – a cacophonous, thrumming rhythm.

Her eyes were a soft brown, Draco distinguished, and it sparkled radiantly against the moonlight, making them come alive. He was helplessly drawn into their depths, unable to avert his lingering scrutiny of her chocolate irises. With a determined mind, he decided that the consequences of his action did not matter, for now.


	2. Two

**Thank you to the readers who followed and favorited my story. I am glad you all took the chance and joined me in this journey. I am also truly grateful to everyone who left a review! Here's the second chapter. Please tell me what you think! There's definitely more in store :)**

 **IMPORTANT: I would like to remind everyone that the characters' personality will resemble those of the ones in the actual story: The Steadfast Tin Soldier. This is my spin on the tale using HP characters to portray the tin soldier, porcelain ballerina, nutcracker and whoever character makes an appearance throughout the course of the story. So do not dwell into it too much of their personalities and just enjoy it as it is because there is definitely a good reason for that if you just keep reading on.**

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With her leg raised high in the air and her elegant pose remained the same even as the moon sprinkled her with life, the graceful dancer's illustrious brown eyes casted a long glance over the strange tin man who kept his inspective grey irises firmly on her. Even from afar she noticed that his features were not at all bad to look at and his face was angelic, almost too real to be made into a toy, despite his missing leg. She would have held his gaze longer had he not broke their eye contact first, with a tip of his tall hat and a movement of his lips that might have been an apology for staring at her.

"What an odd tin soldier," she thought while she watched him straighten up his spine, musket on his right side, and eyes locked on the immense distance in front of him. The amusement was painted on her endearing smile before he finally left her line of sight.

She drank in the joyous scene happening before her. A jack-in-the-box came out of his home and was seen conversing happily with a colorful clown. A crimson toy train drove along the tracks with a load full of miniature passengers who had boarded for a ride. Rich-colored paper maidens were swaying their hips to the beat of the music created by a band of stuffed animals. They moved gleefully in rhythm and laughed so carefree as if they were inside their own little bubble. Each enthralling twist of their bodies was met in great appraisal by a group of young tin gents in their uniforms, who were also dancing with the ladies.

The porcelain ballerina wondered how would it feel like to join the other toys in their merriments that took place every night as the moon shone… for a kind sir to offer her his hand in a dance, or even to engage someone in a conversation with, just so she could speak her mind. She did not want to be a mere spectator, watching her fellow playthings basking in delight from afar. She wanted to be a part of it – she wanted to belong – she wanted a place in this world.

"Hermione, must this daydreaming of yours go on every moonlight?" A rich, velvet voice spoke in clear annoyance. It was dulcet in tone, snapping her out of her reverie.

Still standing on the toes of her one leg, Hermione turned to the direction of the male voice. "Whatever are you talking about, Tom?" She inquired in slight irritation as he had interrupted another of her private musings.

The most handsome nutcracker made of silver filled her vision. His tousled hair was midnight black under his golden crown and his mouth was created as a lever to crack the nuts open. His irises were blazing red, framed by dark brows that sloped downward in a serious expression. His skin was pigmented with the lightest shade of ivory as she observed his sharp jaw and well-defined chin. His dark robes were decorated with numerous pieces of jewelry that indicated he was designed from a mighty king who ruled a wealthy nation.

He took two long strides and stood in front of her, blocking her view of the night's festivities that were commencing too far from her reach. "How many times do I have to remind you? You are too beautiful, too valuable… _too mine_ to belong in their world."

For Tom, she was like a precious guarded secret, an expensive china ornament. Just like him, she was created for the purpose of admiration, appreciation, and astonished approbation. She was an embellishment. An adornment. A decoration – a display. A priceless object of esteemed value that should be kept out of a child's hands at all times.

"Don't tell me you can't you see how happy they are down there?" Hermione replied to him in mild disbelief. Her large brown eyes bore straight into his smoldering pools of red, eager to show Tom her unhappiness to be in this isolation.

"Has my constant company over the years proved too bothersome in your presence?" The nutcracker asked her in a slightly edged tone masked by a darker emotion she could not quite fathom.

The graceful dancer shook her head while some of her soft brown tendrils spilled out of her bun. A small smile was etched on her beautiful face to reassure him. She did not want him to misinterpret her own feelings of longing. "Never," she spoke resolutely knowing this was what he expected her to say. "I belong to you."

Her answer brought a pleased look to surface on Tom's otherwise grave features. He lifted an index finger and caressed her smooth, porcelain cheek. "None of them will ever be worthy company for us, Hermione. They are of the lowest order. Mere outcasts, social misfits – _pariahs_ if you will. There is only you and I."

"Outcasts…" Hermione's rosy lips parted as she repeated his words inside her mind. She realized that she could not bring herself to agree with him. Somehow, the truth of it seemed more befitting for them instead.

The debonair king took her hand in his, leading her to a dance when they heard the music played. And as a toy ballerina made for these activities, she could never decline such an offer, so she twirled and she spun under his grasp. Each perfect movement she made was in line with his, and she hoped in this way her own conflicting emotions would not betray her anymore.

She embraced the tune and in turn, the wondrous music took control of her. Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that could take away an audience's breath. She could feel her very essence becoming one with the symphony of sounds and she unleashed her emotions into her dance.

Hermione danced and danced even as Tom had stopped moments ago to watch her. Her pirouettes were enchanting – synchronized as though she had remembered every step by heart. She danced until her head had gone dizzy. Her brown hair fluttered wildly around her face, and her cheeks had turned flushed. If only she was human so she could feel her feet bleed when it was all too much for her.

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 **Tom is finally here! Yay, can't have my one true love absent forever ;)**


	3. Three

**Sorry for the long wait, I tried uploading this last night but ffnet was acting up. I forgot I've written the third chapter sometime last year because I was also caught up with a couple of my WIPs but I did a little editing now that I found this. Btw I'd like to remind everyone once again that Draco's personality is based on the soldier from the actual tale. His canon traits will be mildly inserted throughout the whole story. Remember he was made with only one leg and he's different from the rest so I think that deficiency alone would humble somebody even him. Anyways, I would like to thank everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed this fic even if some of you guys aren't familiar with the original story. Shout outs to last chapter's reviews: mimsky, Noodles2, whiskeyneat, rebelsaurus29, Mystifying-Me, ItsNatalie, MissFortune12, noellesullivan, and musicandbooks96.**

 **P.S. I have a new fic up entitled Beautiful Disaster. It has Hermione, Tom (of course), Draco, and Theo in it. f you feel like reading some Angels & Demons/Steampunk AU then check it out! www . fanfiction s /12938540 / 1 / Beautiful-Disaster**

 **HAPPY TOMIONE DAY!**

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He could not help it. Truly, he was sorry. He knew he shouldn't have done so, but when he saw how consumed she was in her dance – Draco could not help but _stare_. Somehow in the back of his mind, he knew it was wrong.

With the elegant arching of her back, the graceful movement of her limbs, and each sway of her body… It was all too intimate, too personal, and not meant for a stranger to see. He felt like an intruder although, his grey eyes betrayed him because he could not look away. She was dancing in a way as if she was in great pain. Her suffering burst forth; a tragic picture of a beautiful soul.

Her entire being moved with a purposeful clarity. With each stride she made, it became more painfully apparent how much passion she put into her routine and how punishing it was for her. But no one could see the agony she kept locked inside – except for _him_.

She was deeply submerged with so much emotion, she was already drowning in it and Draco wanted to drown with her, as well. Her steps became harsh, rapid, and _angry_. It was all happening in a blur and he could not keep up. She raised her arms in the air, bending slender fingers as she arched her back delicately and spun on the ball of one foot.

She was spinning. Save me.

And spinning. _**Save me**_.

And spinning. _**SAVE ME**_!

Her body was screaming to him what her voice could not, leaving invisible scars inside her soul. She was a dead porcelain shell encapsulating a world of void, wishing to be filled with even just the most gentle of touch. The unspoken pleas echoed louder and louder inside Draco's mind. A sense of anguish more so than an ache had taken over of his tin heart.

"Please, stop!" He wanted to yell, beg to remove her pain, and take it all instead. Though, before he even realized what he was doing, he was already flinging himself on the edge of the table. And when he was falling beneath the brutal waves of melancholy, he would never expect to come back whole again... Just like her.

 **~~O~~**

This was an obsession he figured, not so long ago. A mere chance encounter led by a fickle thing called fate. One small change could make a tremendous difference, irreversible and everlasting. What an individual believed to be acceptable could easily make the whole universe turn against them.

Fortunately for him, he always had the better side of things, if not – the very best. Some would call it… ' _the luck of the draw_ '. However, he was not the type of man made out of silver who believed in such foolish nonsense. There was a darkness that lay deep within his core, a madness unlike any other that no one could ever control. He allowed it to triumph over him and every chain of events started with one pull – the _catalyst_. If only he paid close attention early on, he would discover that _she_ was his catalyst all along. The fascinating female doll crafted from porcelain.

" _Hermione_..." Tom spoke in a whisper. He savored the way her name rolled off his tongue so effortlessly it was already second nature to him as he continued to watch her as she danced.

"Just what was so special about her?" He would often ask himself before. Was it the way her brown irises flared with a kind of raw passion and intensity he witnessed the very first time he laid eyes upon her? The sort of gaze that could ignite a wall of blistering heat that threatened to scald one's very lungs, killing the body from the inside like a slow, torturous execution.

Was it the way her wild hair behaved like an untamed animal that matched the ferocious lioness roaring inside of her when a few strands would escape from its arrangement?

Or the way her beautiful face would contort to an expression of mingled displeasure and aversion whenever he would do something that indisputably displeased her?

She attacked him with her brilliant arguments and passionate opinions. She was unafraid to show him how angry she could be when provoked. She was a spitfire; a voice of reason that demanded to be heard. He would let her speak for a time until he would lose his temper with her words and their altercations would repeat itself again.

She was the vexing of the soul. The swelling of the veins, waiting to explode. She was like the rushing of blood to the head and saying things, one would rather leave unsaid.

Tom knew the answer to his question perfectly well. For him, she was at her most beautiful this way. She was special because of all those things. She was rage, intelligence, passion, and beauty wrapped into one.

A memory from a long time ago began to resurface in his mind...

 _"We bring you urgent news, Sire," one of his servants spoke after he bowed down in front of Tom, awaiting for his permission to resume speaking. It was a human toy skeleton named Scabior, molded out of fine clay._

 _"Continue," the silver nutcracker replied while glancing at the skeleton's vacant, charcoal sockets. His voice had a rich, regal timbre that exuded great power and authority._

 _"The Young Master's mother had spoken of a feminine trinket that will be added in this room to join you in your place, shortly," the creature assembled from the whitest of clay bones, answered with a movement of its mandible. Its hard jaw exposed a set of straight teeth as though it was in a state of a perpetual smile._

 _"Such interesting news…" Tom's red eyes hardened potently as he responded to his servant with a calculating look. For the playthings inside Regulus' large playroom, he was known as the Nutcracker King._

 _"And when will this lowly, girlish dolly arrive?"_

 _"Tonight, My King."_


	4. Four

**Here's a new chapter! Woohoo, I'd like to thank my awesome beta Sunset-Whispers for always being so absolutely brilliant at what she does! This chapter has been buried under my google docs for quite some time before I actually had a moment to sort everything out. I hope you guys enjoy it. Angst galore! Couldn't help myself xxx**

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He knew he was a fool. An absolute, utter loon. He was a helplessly-in-love stupid toy, who let his irrational feelings take control. And look where it brought him now – plummeting midair. For those precious seconds, he was now plunging to the ground; his limbs were flailing with his musket gripped tightly on one hand, and his mouth agape. He did not know what he was thinking when he decided to throw himself off of the table. Maybe he was not really thinking at all. Every semblance of rationality seemed to flee from his brain, replaced with only thoughts of her and how much he wanted to save her.

At any moment, he knew he was going to reach the cold, hard floor as everything was rushing past him in a blur. And even if he was not a man born of flesh and bones, every fiber of his being had knotted together as the realization flooded in – this was going to be a painful descent.

He closed his eyes. Burned her image in his memory, carved every single detail of her porcelain face, and treasured it deep within his tin heart and soul. If he would not survive this fall, then he was grateful that at least the last thing he saw was _her_.

"Are you mad, soldier?!" Draco heard an agitated voice ring loudly in his ears. If this was death, he was quite taken by surprise. He did not expect to be greeted so incredibly hostilely.

"Oof!" The lone-legged serviceman exclaimed as he felt a strong tug on his midsection, forcing his entire body to jerk upward. A constricting sensation was building up in his gut. His free hand instinctively searched for the origin of the discomfort.

Why was there a rope coiled tightly around his stomach? Draco immediately opened his eyes and looked above. He squinted for he could not make out the figure that seemed to be pulling him up on the table.

"What were you thinking?" The voice demanded once Draco landed on the solid surface. The raucous tone belonged to a male plaything, the blond surmised. One that was unfamiliar and coated with a thick accent reminiscent of the wild West.

"I had a bit of a slip-up," the tin soldier responded defensively as he glanced at the toy carved from what seemed like expensive dark wood, who began unfastening the rope attached to him.

When the man was finished, he stood up and adjusted his holstered revolver; he was almost as tall as Draco. His hair was painted black, darker than the bark of his skin and the brown of his irises. And resting on top of his head was a wide-brimmed hat. He wore a Western dress shirt with snap pockets, a red bandana on his neck, and a pair of boots. He was a wooden toy cowboy.

"I reckon." The miniature rodeo performer smirked at him with amused skepticism. "Knowing I just had a front row seat of how you hurled yourself from the table," he replied with a perfect Southern American accent. It was evident that he did not believe the tin man's ruse.

Draco chose to pay it no mind. After all, this uncouth wrangler had spared him from what would have been a painful and nasty fall. He leaped and wobbled on his sole leg, then he steadied himself with his musket when he found his footing.

"I should get back to my post. Your heroic deed will not be forgotten, sir. You have a soldier's word and gratitude."

The dark-haired cowboy chuckled and eyed him speculatively. "Is this your fancy way of thanking me? What a bunch of formal tin folks," he mumbled under his breath. "As long as you don't plan on endangering yourself on a daily basis, it's all good," he added good-naturedly and extended his hand. "The name's Blaise, by the way."

Draco took it and shook his hand. "Draco. My brothers and I just arrived here on Christmas Day."

"Ah, yes. You're one of the new toys – the Young Master's favorite."

And for a moment, he felt his tin heart leap rapidly from his chest. He wondered if the other playthings were also aware of how often Regulus played with him. A spark of hope ignited in Draco's chest. Did _she_ notice him, too?

He thought of her as his constant force. His stability in a world filled with doubts and uncertainty.

His grey irises swiftly searched for the beautiful ballerina. He set his determined gaze away from the gaiety party filled with fresh music and lively dancing.

"How do you find this place?" He heard Blaise ask him, pulling his attention back to the dark-skinned cowboy.

"It's alright. Much better than the old coot's cramped toyshop," the blond serviceman answered bluntly. Of course, what he said was not the whole truth.

Dumbledore, the famous toy maker who lived down the street maybe a barmy old man, but he had a talent for crafting toys unlike no other.

He had the ability to transform worn out materials into unique children's playthings. He knew what he was doing, especially when he made Draco from the last bit of tin.

Draco was one of the toymaker's precious pieces of work, despite the blond soldier's disability. His creativity brought children's dreams to life and for that Draco was grateful. But still, the toy serviceman could not shake the feeling of emptiness inside him that had nothing to do with his missing leg.


End file.
